Maybe Iíll never see her again
no oneís to blame
just this shame that i carry in my head
called my name
and that number that provides thunder
to make me feel game then later ashamed.
I wonder if anyone ever seeís the same
painting i do when i write these schemes.
It would be hard to believe.
If one day you happen to find my notebook,
youíve found me.
Youíd probably be more confused than
Christopher Columbus seemed.
I hate writing things otherís cant read,
as much as i hate having secrets unseen.
I never met a word i didnít like until
Kirstenís description was experienced.
Never feared a part of literature so much
a reality that one could not believe.
My lead keeps breaking; is it ever going to run out?
or does it just magically increase itself
because it likes to experience masterpieces of tragedy?
or is secretly telling me that Iíve said too much?
maybe it just likes to love itself.
Look at my armís lines and sparkleís
you could probably figure it out.
Go ahead and connect-the-dots
and metaphors and any other things
that you think might be useful to connect,
its not what makes up my main thought.
Physically everything hurts
but that pain is buried under dirt
and my mindís only shirt
is imprinted with the thought of her.
and what i did.
Just like i always do,
I went and messed things up again.
So many second chances
still i hope for one more
but somehow it always ends up
just like before.
I miss her.